Harmonies From Within The Maze Raw
Harmonies from Within The Maze By Christopher J. Bradley Compiled 11/9/01 3:03:29 AM Head Kick By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 5:36:28 PM Kicking in the Head Is more fun Than getting head kicked. Composing By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 5:51:20 PM To compose To write To make music And fill the ear with voice. This is something I often did By low light In the green room In any season. I often dreamed of fantastic places Robots Planes and Cars Traveling together between the spaces Left behind through time. Jotting notes down with a pen I'd make them come to life And build the tracks with keyboard gear To make steely drums bite. Composition is an art A pattern of woven skills Not quite the phantom it appears To the weak of will. Someday I'll share my symphony To see what people think As they dance and dine and thrill To my sand washed blink. A Steak Sandwich In The Suburban Jungle By Christopher J. Bradley 9/10/01 11:18:29 PM Tonight after a visit to the doctor And a trip to the post office to mail items auctioned At a profit of less than zero On the commerce rails of e-bay I ventured with my aunt and her grand schemes To the mall in Cheektowaga Under the assumption that we were going to pick up glasses. The optical shop at JC Penney's resides beneath a large parking awning At the side of the mall And allowed easy access for my aunt who walks with a cane. I parked the car and finished a cigarette before following her inside. The store smelled like cloth and salon gel as I entered the foyer I went quickly to the restroom When leaving a father and young son debated over which stall to use. I remember having the same conversation with my father And having the same conversation again with my young brother In public. This choice is something men secretly learn to despise when older I believe. It is unfortunate that in the twenty first century we still are not a cleaner people. With a towel in my hands I left them to their concerns. In the optical shop I cleaned my face of blackheads in the mirror While listening to my aunt complain about the glasses she had purchased. I knew her secret. I thought she believed she could get a better deal elsewhere. I was quiet as I was expected to be But inside I wanted to scream What is this madness? To order custom lenses and frames and then expect to return them? People aged twenty-eight are never permitted that sort of luxury. In any case the optical shop was left promptly And I drove her past Buca Di Beppo's A place where I'd had a festive dinner with friends She noticed a sign that said Health Department Inspected And I laughed As if other restaurants weren't. We kept driving And in mid travel agreed on Pizzeria UNO A place conveniently traveled to by Millersport and a short cut That turned out to be not so short Where we discussed the menu at length And I found a steak sandwich That suited me just fine. I used A1 Which I told her I'd gotten into the habit of using At Bob Evans With the Steak and Eggs Special. I used the sauce liberally and enjoyed every bite Especially the cooked mushrooms onions and peppers. I wanted to tell her how much the sandwich reminded me of Chicago But it would have seemed redundant As she already knew it was a Chicago chain. I thought back to eating Breaded Steak Sandwiches With Bear and the other Sig Ep Brothers And going on a burrito run while listening to Jane's Addiction With Parry Farrell screaming "Coming Down The Mountain." In the back seat of a packed Honda. I don't believe there is ever a time I felt more of a part of a group Outside of the days when I co-ordinated the BBS'ers in high school. I felt equal and free and nervous The blackness of the Jazz city at night Took me in and I was safe there with the other explorers of our generation. But to describe this in a moment How would it have been possible And to someone so set I would have needed an hour. Maybe introducing her to books was enough for a night After dinner I took her to Barnes and Noble for coffee And we shared some words about design And heroic accidents And drank caramel coffee With any luck we can do this again. And without as many rifts. Maybe by the time the next time comes She'll have already dealt with the glasses. Hurling new Dough By Christopher J. Bradley 1/27/01 9:10:07 AM At four o'clock I rushed the kitchen Every Friday after school For almost a year. I cleaned the dishes first Washing my hands in the soapy lather While the restaraunt was getting set For dinner rush. My other kitchen help Prepared the dough in a big metal mixer While we all listened to tunes on discs Of MC Hammer or the Eagles. No one ever had to slice mushrooms We used them from an industrial size can But we did have to cut onions and peppers. The dough was rolled neatly into balls And placed in plastic refrigerator trays While what we needed was brought out To the racks above the cutting table. When the first order would come in From the restaraunt or the phone The music would go a little louder And the hurling would begin. I was nervous the first time I was asked To go at it with the dough. I was a delivery driver never a chef They always flung it so high in the air And I thought catching it might be a problem. The trick the black cook said Was to throw it like a frisbee So that the rubbery stuff would stretch out And float back to you on air. It took some faith that it would work A flimsy aerodynamic sail And it did come back to me So many times that year. Now Try The Best By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 4:47:39 PM Before the days of cellular Beepers or the rest I delivered pizza pies For you may have guessed it The Best. I'd enter through the side door And saunter past the stove Where they'd rest upon the oven Warming in heat's glow. Sometimes they came with chicken wings And often times with pop I'd grab a whole big bunch of food And quickly leave the shop. The car door opened with one hand So boxes red and white with heat Could radiate their odor's through the air While resting on my seat. If the need was there a city map Would help me find my way Through traffic lights And auto fray. The driveway was so perilous On Military Road That if I moved an inch too quick Collisions might explode. The radio was often blaring When I'd start my trip I'd ease right into traffic And take a soda sip. The tanginess of fresh made food Lingered in the car While I wove past shopping stores Auto shops and bars. Then into dim lit neighborhoods Friendlier than not I brought hot trays and bottles For my tipping lot. In my time I've had a slice or two While delivering the goods Courtesy of management Or makers of the loot. The Pizza was tasty and tangy And made just to my request If I'd worked there one more summer I'd enjoy it all again. To keep your driver satisfied In comfort and in style Ask him often and clearly To come that extra mile. It's clear when you receive your wings and Za And they've surpassed the test That you've tried all the rest of them It's time to try the best. The Greenery of Beans By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 6:17:34 PM A cup of coffee isn't as simple as it looks There is so much time in preparation It has to start at the roots of a plant Somewhere warm Say for example In Columbia or Guatemala. Then it grows into a Ferning vessel That is carpentered By the hands of workers who live Subsistantly from the land. They carry their satchels Northward Using horses and mules To dispatchers Who prepare and pack the kernels To bring them to cafés. There is more of a dynamic In a café than you might realize The clerk behind the counter Might have been a customer for years While poets and actors gather 'round To share their hopes and fears The game players find themselves there Imbibing in the fruit Of laborers beyond the line Toiling in the South. I drink it all in once again The scenery and the scene While writing on this tissue Through crystalline caffeine The people all around and about Are the greenery of the beans. Sketch an Edge By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 5:45:08 PM Third grade after counting I'd dig you from the clutter A bright red rectangle With a silver grey interior. I'd draw my pictures Dragging your pointer through the grey To leave a thin black line That would fade away with shaking Or would fade away with time. Now I've got a new solution Maybe it will last a while A mouse a scanner camera printer And an ounce or two of rhyme. Your tracing rays were easily gone As will all the ink When sand runs over sand again And at last we sink. Extra Tempestual Being By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 5:15:51 PM She took me in a dream In my own clean white sheeted bed She had a larger than normal frontal lobe Making her eyes stretch out like a black heart Centered on her grey nostrils. I was close to naked And gripped the metal bars At the side of my frame As her touch set my sizzling spine upward. She watched me Her head slowly tilting right In wonderment to my response And I didn't feel the juice Just the lightening in blue and magenta. Her off black shouldrers Were satined with a green-orange aura And she faded slowly into darkness Before I could follow to watch her fly off through my window. She had let me know That somewhere in Space Time Marcus Allen Bradley would be born Even if no earthly mother would bring him. And I've managed to capture At least her essence In at least a narrowly interested niche In an off centered web in cyber-space From tempera colors She has revisited me. My Extra Tempestual Being You saved what might have gone the way of Poe's Usher Never to Return And for that I can only paint your praise. Origami Trick By Christopher J. Bradley 1/11/01 Unfold Recomplexify yourself You are my magazine postcard textbook. Refold You thicken to make Swans Tortoises and Tulips. Swim Nothing binds your skin You are a singular wholeness on dark water Crawl Four legs will lean in And travel you forward in slow steps. Grow Like a wild mushroom Shoot up from every acre of green. Then rest Upon my coffee marked table At the point of my aching pen. From Harlem to 42nd By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 7:05:50 PM The daylight was smashing Through my gunmetal frames I could see the teeming walkers Strolling like panthers Beside the row of rolling tires. At each quick coming intersection. I would have to stop and burn minutes away From the air conditioning system Of my curvy blackberry sedan. The cigarette smoke filled the closed car While I fidgeted with the yohimbe In it's little gold packet Wondering exactly what to do with it. There was probably a warrant out In that little truckstop region Where I'd bought the sandwich. Because I'd accidentally pocketed the gold. I was among the pimps and hustlers of ninety seventh In their "For Us By Us" Jersey's and chains They crossed every which way In front of and behind my bumpers. While baby-mamas drove carriages Along the smooth walks of modern harlem. I felt no panic in the daylight Of a May Parade. Toward Seventieth I could start to make out the businesses And the street began to tighten The pace of all the traffic quickened one step at a time. As if each press of the break pedal Increased the speed incrementally I seriously noticed the weaving cabs Bright yellow with their tank-like grills. It finally broke my nervous system At around fiftieth when I saw The blinking clock Trussed to a twenty story building Flashing 3:16. For God so loved the universe That he brought me to it's apex... And I rode to 42nd And swung off left To look for parking The ramps were available But for what I had to give There was no room to slow down. Grand Central Station By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 7:24:03 PM So I twisted back and forth a while Through the interstices of the metropolitan sidestreets Looking for parking gaps That wouldn't cost more than Twenty for the day. When I found there were none Even that far from 5th I started looking for an Avenue To lead me to a Bridge New York had exhausted me And I was barely there And couldn't spot an ATM in my exhaustion. The motion was ceaseless And tightly knit An integrated blanket Of twisting yarns. Behind a half parked truck I saw the light of an Avenue From the darkness of an overshadowed street And with a quick jog to the left I was in the blaze of summer again. With yellow taxi's blocking me out on all sides I was so caught in the flow That I could do nothing but shift left or right To avoid collisions. I saw a sport utility vehicle Mix in with the mash of motion And remembered to tune into Z100. DMX was on the radio Thumping hard with "Party Up!" And all the cabs were speeding ahead There was a tunnel within view. At it's right was a massive hotel I followed into the station With the yellows. And it was as if someone had flicked off the lightswitch. There were people stepping to cabs so quickly it was difficult not to hit them. I drove as far left as I could to get out of their way. And I followed the curving of the tunnel For a sixteenth of a mile Until I could see the light And a sign for Central Park. Central Park By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 7:38:06 PM The sign pointed straight ahead So I continued on Bloodshot and boiling Not knowing the name of this thoroughfare After passing over a bridge with neat white railings The traffic thinned and slowed slightly And I realized I was listening to a top 10 countdown With Destiny's Child in the Mix at number 5. I knew as I traveled that eminem would be at the top His track had been convincing me that I was "the real slim shady" all month With that I progressed. Past the towering underwear billboards Hosting Nike and Gucci And diamonds and leather And on the right I began to see the greenery With it's trimmers and it's Rollerbladers. Suddenly I was attuned to the parking signs And a meter welcomed me The zone was 30 minutes with towing. It was the best I could do. So I got out of the Saturn Stepped between vehicles And paid. I rested with the windows down The breeze of mid-town Bristling my whiskers. Eminem blinged into my conciousness And I woke up from a half dream About Carolina and Scott Would I make it there in time to get to Ashland? Or would I have my tour interrupted? I still had 15 minutes left. The street called but I wouldn't have made it two steps I turned off the radio to hear it's burbling buzz And I noticed that there was not a bird or insect In sight. Exit to George Washington By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 7:50:42 PM Getting back into the river of cars was rough I had to keep sticking my head out the window To look for a large enough gap The Saturn was bigger than the Shadow. Finally I hit the gas and slowed the car in the right My watch told me it was about 4:30 in silver and black plastic Soon the park was behind me and I was completely engaged in motion There were traffic lights all around. I flowed straight ahead until the street changed names I noticed a sign at the curbside that read Frederick Douglas Boulevard I had entered through Harlem and exited to freedom. The George Washington's steel frame was just ahead. I followed to the end Past more jersey's and carriages Careful to stop with every red sign Smoking my pulse up all the way. I was hot and thirsty So I opened a bottle of water That I'd bought at the truck stop near Corning Where they'd sold me the purple fry soda. It seemed like I sweat before I swallowed. The water poured from my wrinkled forehead As I entered the concrete guide way Trapped in a sluggish fiberglass conveyor Baking like a tin foiled potato. The cars and trucks were at an aneuristic halt. Nothing moved. I feared the worst If I had moved my foot from the brake At an all too unpleasant moment. I'll say I made it with caution But that was far from the end of the experience Getting out of the jungle concrete cost me twelve-fifty Of the twenty in my wallet. Garden State Extraction By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 4:39:21 PM After the gargantuan bridge Came an option North or South On the Garden State Parkway I chose south thinking it would lead me Down through Jersey Toward the Carolinas There was traffic to contend with plenty. Red Blue and Silver Sedans were weaving Like electrons through silicon wafers And suddenly I realized They were part of some kind of caravan. It wasn't like a funeral procession It happened too quick for that It was like they were government Surrounding a limousine. Had one of the Clinton's been Pushing out of the city Toward the airport? Or had they been traveling by auto back to D.C.? I was lost in the nanosecond of their passing In the swarm of metal husks And so I kept pace with the last of the fifty or so of them Until I spotted an Aamaco. I veered off And paid the attendent with a folded ten Angled up like the tail of a swan And had my tank refueled. It was getting toward seven and I was hungry So I pulled into the first small town I saw Turned the radio down And started looking for a cheap Italian place. No Free Parking in Jersey By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 4:50:01 PM When I exited into Jersey The Traffic was fierce But in a different way It seemed like every car had custom rims. The buildings were all compact Like adobe brick houses on a New Mexico mesa The asphault wasn't overly slanted But tilted enough that you could feel the gravity. There were businesses of all types That I slowly passed by But a lack of parking lots was plainly evident And the streets were firmly lined. It took me almost 30 minutes To weave my way out of the small township And when I finally got to the sign for the Garden State I got forced left into a residential maze. The red blue and silver cars were there again Black Miatas and white jaguars were among them I began to think they were leading me somewhere In my exhaustion my thoughts were misplaced. There was a purple heart monument Clearly marked on one rightward channel With effort I followed the signs through And around. I was so burned from the smoke and the sun That I almost parked in the driveway to a home But I continued on and passed a little league baseball field And then got lost in a dead end Where a man on a riding mower Was wearing earphones and it appeared - That he was talking to himself. I backed up and turned around To watch a black crow hop across the street And slowly wound a path Back to a sign for the Parkway. The Darkest Zing By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 5:28:13 PM The swim in deep asphalt at the crack of night Cleared the throb from my temples a bit I still had a grape soda left. So I carefully opened the twisting bottlecap On the lean glass bottle and took randomly paced swigs. Fortunately The bottle fit neatly into my car's cupholder So I could cruise with both hands for the most part The signs indicated I was headed South There was no sun as a guiding force. So I floated adrift with the big wheelers And the dashers sped past All of those black and grey spy hunter sports cars Slicking oil at ninety miles an hour Hopping open gaps from nothing. Then suddenly I was with them again I had caught up with them all They were a caravan for my protection And there were video puzzles on the backs of the trucks Silver fractalized bouncing balls iridescently gleamed. Then it looked like a map flashed my retina On the square sheet of steel Of the next eighteen circled machine And I flinched and drove right Almost flinging through the path of a roadster. They were teaching me to move at high velocity Steering me this way and that Guiding me down a never ending path Of green and yellow caution signs It was my own Daytona that I would never have. It was as if Police didn't exist on that road It had been sanctioned Holy For the Zealots that were leading me to be briefed And I thought back to the "Nissan/Comic Book" Escapade And when I saw the squares I was there. Rotating Lamps By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 7:14:48 PM I didn't hear an audible siren But a flash went off in the back of my head When my eyes crossed the rear view To land upon red and white rotating rooftop lamps. I was in motion Climbing right to the curb slowly Praying that in deep night This Police officer was for real. I had been traveling slow In a forty mile an hour zone He didn't check for liquor or drugs Just told me to get to a hotel fast. He said there was one off to the left But he didn't lead me there And I saw the New Briton Square sign again And just started back onto the Expressway. Poison Tree in New Berlin By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 6:03:48 PM 2 cars exited from the ramps One led to New Briton The other to New Berlin. I followed the one to New Berlin And stopped at the edge of the compound. The structure before me looked like a gatehouse. I dared not exit the vehicle here. So I slowly smoked a cigarette And emptied my ashtray out the window The car was gone. Another soon followed down the road So I revved my engine and followed it in. They would lead me to my quarters With the tightest security possible And when I arrived it was more than I ever could have hoped for. A house with a big driveway was here I pulled in and put my cigarette out The other car was gone in a flash I stepped out of the car and headed for the door To look for a manilla envelope packet with a key. When I opened the door A political magazine slid out Written in German This was not the place for me But I stood for a moment before leaving. Before the garage there was a spindling potted tree The tree had thin leaves They projected a perfect poisonous shadow Before the large wooden frame And the perfectly flat cement driveway pushed up against my shoes. I desperately tried to weave my way out of that place But at every turn there was a dead end or a wooden gate Finally I found the block with the house again And a kid around seventeen with a sleeveless shirt Pointed me to the road out. As I exited I noticed the carefully placed "Trespassing Is Granted Zero Tolerance" signs It really is a good thing I didn't panic And stop at the police or fire stations For any kind of assistance. Lasergrid Pole Position By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 7:19:36 PM The hallucinations from the magic soda got worse The trucks were pushing the pace even faster Once I had climbed the ramp back into the night sea The white lines on blackness blurred. My vehicle was crunching dots Like an invisible Pac-Man It was Pole Positioned for the other Square Through a lasergrid set that only a cybernaut could navigate Fortunately I was tuned in with my chip set to static. I bopped back and forth across the lanes At a high rate of velocity Paying close attention to the Road Arrows And Slick signs. The cracks in the dry tar made my shocks jumble And the beams drifted across in flashes of green and red Like those of the raves so many years past Except that these blipped in quick single shots. The deeper into the electro-static maze I delved The fewer vehicles there were I was coordinated enough to maneuver while lighting smokes And the air was cooling to comfortable. It was like being inside a lightening tunnel In a dream about the anger of Zeus But drifting with the winds of the ocean clouds Except that all that was there was blackness. I hoped not to see any more creatures Like I had outside of Corning On that forested trail Toward the beginning of the journey. Camp Hill Hit Patches By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 7:31:16 PM Roped back half acres Of green fern slicked around the blackberry cocoon They made me think of dangerous games That take place in the forest. Of men hunting men as ghosts Cutting one another down like lumber The smell of freshly composted rot Lingered even as a taste to me. They were like down town SAS I couldn't see them but they were there I tried to avoid those hit patches By following the back end points of bent black arrows. They were posted along the sides of the road Like warning markers left near The site of an Indian Burial Ground Stand clear of the kill zones and everything will be fine. The road wound slowly And as I made my way past an industrial park Buried in the greenery I began to realize that Camp Hill was nearly gone. A small bridge asked me to pass over And I found myself compelled to cross Knowing that it would be taken by ion pulse From one of the birds in the sky. None of it mattered much I had passed safely through The next phase would be critical to the plan Closing the back door for good was the key. They Can Read The Fine Print By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 7:39:24 PM I passed the site of a blazing fire With several cherry red trucks arranged outside of it There was water everywhere on the dirty ground And men in yellow fire coats were rushing toward the flame mirage. I was directed forward With a lighted cone By a volunteer fireman In a blue and white vest. It seemed that in the township There was still no where safe to park I considered stopping in an office complex But then proceeded. There was a long road ahead anyway One with a path of flashing lights They were pinging me And holding the unauthorized back. By not aligning them with me exactly. I opened the glovebox and took out the CD case And placed the discs inside on the dashboard I flipped them back side up So that the data could be read by the birds Music is so complex That mixing two styles For encryption And then melding them with purple liquid Was going to block out those without clearance. I was in my greens and ready to hash it out My shoes were tight on my feet. I used my blinkers once or twice to break an arrow On those who sped around me. And I clenched my teeth like Grey Grantham That writer must have covered those sorts of actions before. For the Raccoons Fawns and Bunnies By Christopher J. Bradley 5/24/01 12:27:02 AM If I could capture all of your innocence Curiosity and wonder I would do everything in my power To share it with my eight year old brother. There is something to your furry world That cannot be captured in a cartoon About Angry Beavers At least though the cartoon acknowledges That there are beavers on earth. If you had been given wings You would be even more beautiful As creatures of the ground though You can find places that I cannot Bound from the road by four rubber wheels. Sometimes I see you Moving at the edges of the wood And I pray That somehow The wood might grow over all of us And take us all into God's realm. I know that you fare well there Feasting on leaves and bugs And that your bodies glow and shimmer in the sun And dampen with the rain And I marvel at how you survive the winters. If I could I would like to live inside your minds for a year To feel the fury of a wild run with nature for a year On long legs with clicking knees Or swishing a striped tail through the bushes While quickly sniffing at the air with my tender whiskers. When we do get beyond this consciousness I will make a point of having this little conversation with you And see if maybe we can swap identities for a bit For I know in heaven We will be more than we can comprehend And maybe we'll be able to share ourselves wholly with one another. To the fawns raccoons and bunnies I give you my peace and good will And I will keep my tires As best I can Where they belong. Accident by Christopher J. Bradley 11/3/01 9:29:04 PM I felt my bones cringle crackle at the moment of impact The green sport utility hitting my rear trunk. My car slid forward a little on the pavement as I pressed the brake pedal harder. And I watched the car come up quick from the left. I instinctively put the car in park. I was gripped by the stupidness of it all as I groped for my cell phone to dial 911 which ultimately would not answer. I learned when I got home from the emergency room that there had been an anthrax scare at the bridge. What kind of nightmare had I been in the center of In that room that night. I was amazed at how they all kept their calm while trying to fit me with a cervical brace. Fortunately as I type now I am not in one But my back is in pain Moreso than ever... And I pray that there will be relief. I've been going for some walks lately as prescribed and I've enjoyed being around my family It seems at times we barely live but we will make it if I have anything to say about it. And someday I will get that scratch fixed where someone keyed my car even though that cannot be remedied immediately. An Angel Descends By Christopher Bradley Dedicated to Chuck Excel 3/6/01 6:04:45 PM An angel descends From out of the snowy skies To make my life A little more liveable. He doesn't get deeply involved Just gives me some simple surface words That slowly sink into my being As he and his companion depart. My Assassin By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 5:23:20 PM Before I died in 1994 I remember thinking That I would have just a little bit of fun with her. She was like a kitten Curled up on an eighty year old man's lap. One with claws that held her there Poking into clean white fiber. She looked into me from her perch While I was avoiding playing chess Her arms were around the old man With her curling hair falling over denim. Her eyes didn't want me to let them go. And so I stayed a moment too long Not noticing her bleach stained jeans Until I gazed down to break her stare. Her smile was full of dynamite It was a grin full of the jester's humor My bones would soon be breaking Her thighs were made of C-4. Little did I know at the time My death was imminent To every known cause Of ultimate fulfillment. My assassin disappeared The next night into the rain I wouldn't see her for one more year When she would verify her claim. Her sights had been on target A fallen man I was With little blood to hold on to The ground chill to my fading heat. She flew again Like a vampire bat Deep into the night And with my faintest pleading gasps "My assassin did me right." Awkward Moments By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 6:06:52 PM Why are people concerned About these awkward moments that they have? Spaces of seconds against the clock When they might be asked about choices to make About their relationships To all these other people. It seems that I create an awkward moment When I speak or write And so for a moment I will let my pen rest To give in to other's might. But soon I'll tell it all again With fury and with force And let the awkward seconds spill about Let nature run it's course. Desire in Commercial Lust By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 6:11:06 PM There is no desire in Commercial Lust. Nothing is striven for Only pulled away Stripping heart from mind from soul And draining the breath of life From a dying orchid of decay. There is a weeping sadness In the shadowbox we see On an entertainment shelf Holding a TV. The bright mag covers all the same Flowing through the malls Show models in their creepy stares Drowned in alcohol. The fortunate among us Will come to realize That to truly build a better self Takes mental exercise. Cubicles and Pods in January By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 6:55:14 PM Our Office Space is divided Into neatly tangled cubes Filled with telephones and terminals And bachlorettes and dudes. The cubicles are sorted Into circular grouped pods Spindling round about with calendars And supervisor wads. A weave of red black office chairs Find their ways about While we all goggle into screens As customers do shout. The syncopated rhythm Of typing keyboard keys Makes our eardrums static out The photocopy sheen. Our breaks are stiffly metered out By quick computer clocks While bottled water's carried in From Aquafina Trucks. On occasion we get little toys Or helium baloons And everyone is deep in line On Friday Afternoon. I know I'll find my way out Before the operation folds But for now I'll keep the heat up And try not to catch cold. First Seconds of Airtime By Christopher Bradley 3/6/01 5:57:36 PM dedicated to Kari Arnold The first seconds I used of airtime Were a radio blast through space. I received a busy signal From my aunt's fixed line in the hospital room. The beep beep bonging Cut my ear as a shock I suppose I didn't think Anyone else would be contacting her At that particular moment. She'd gotten through the surgery alright I guess that was a relief. I had some lunch with my mother while there And brought a vase full of Iris' From the florist. I am glad that she remembered To bring the stuffed puppy dog That I had purchased for her for Christmas. I finally got through Calling from my car To leave her the phone number So that she could call me back So that I could bring Mom home For a little rest. God Save the Machines By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 6:27:50 PM God save the digital warriors With Flexgrip PDA's On Airplanes and in subways From shutdowns or delays. Keep them marching here and there With pocketbooks and suits Drinking Margaritas While on Carribbean Cruise. Bring them safe through Terminals and Stiles Keep them traveling cheap and free On frequent flyer miles. Give them stops in Boston Dallas and Fort Worth Televise their local calls All around the earth. Sparkle them with gifts and glories On their wedding days Grant them children two point five With double income pay. And smite their loathsome subjects With molding bails of hay. God save the machines The doctors and their clerks Speed their fancy jaguars And flash them all the perks. Grey Stone and Velvet in Albany By Christopher J. Bradley I remember looking out at a statue of Lincoln From a room filled with historically preserved flags On the upper floor of the New York State Legislative Chambers At the top of a pink staircase in Albany. They told us as we climbed it that it was The Tallest Staircase in the United States Quite possibly the world Made of sand washed soapstone. Earlier that day We had shaken hands with the Governor in the Red Room While he'd been doing a photo shoot For Rolling Stone magazine. And even earlier We had met with the state comptroller After a long walk through A narrow underground tunnel For short the government employees called it the subway. The curtains in the hallways Of the senate building were velvet and mostly red The atmosphere was like that of what I have imagined about Rome And the senators were like animated puppets of the people. I also remember drinking beer cooled in a bathtub After perhaps the finest formal dinner I've ever attended As kalimari Filet Minon and Deep Sea Bass Mingled with Heineken and Killians in my body. Albany dizzied me to the point of sickness once Among the absurdity of fraternal antics But it will never look as dreary again Now that I have seen how well Velvet complements Grey Stone On the inside. I Never Met a Monkey By Christopher J. Bradey 3/7/01 6:51:24 PM I've never met a monkey That I could have a signing with I would like to though I bet he could talk with his hands Far better than I. Maybe we'll get swift enough And smart enough someday To build a keyboard with big keys So that they can share their memories. It really does amaze me That I've never seen anyone scientific Make quite that suggestion. Monkey poets of the world unite Your time is on the horizon. El Biblioteca Americano By Christopher Bradley 3/7/01 5:43:20 PM To complain in a library Shaped like a sick albatross Almost within earshot of two guards Is like a bittersweet nectarine of wisdom. There are many volumes and indices here And individual books by the gross There are full shelves But no people browsing them. The plants are still alive But the florescent lights are blinking out Like pinball tilt signs In lightning white jitters. It will be good not to come here Too often The place doesn't offer the modernity of cybernews. And the bookstore has a more brilliant sheen And coffee with my favorite hosts And an occasional aquaintance drops by All this for a mere $2.35. But who knows? Maybe there is something to save this wretched place for Maybe they'll one day line it with PC's And make true access for those of They who can not afford. Fool's Tokens By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 6:30:25 PM On a cool winter afternoon I entered the Topic after a day of early training For the Disney Interactive program And bought six wooden nickels for four dollars The Aroma of Amaretto steamed from my mug Bearded Bob had poured me a free one. I stamped my shoes from the cold And reached past my shirt pocket for the tape And handed it to him Knowing that with the shop nearly empty He would play it. And he did. The Stone Roses shimmered into being And livened the mood of the wood and plaster café' So I told Bob about life on the job And he cautiously congradulated me Perhaps having seen ambition before. I sat at the bar and he and I drank in the sound As I read the board for new drinks Like Captain Hazelnut's Aneurism Or Full Throttle Mocha And as "Adored" finished... In walked a heavy headed Russian capped Scottsman Who was well known in these parts But I hadn't been expecting him. I bought him a Tanzanian And we were deep into "Fool's Gold." It was the eight minute rock out That he'd taped for me To listen to on quiet evenings Om a storage closet in the University What a drastic improvement! Eureka! That tape now rests on my parents' kitchen counter We trade compact discs now The Happy Mondays for a special mix of my own And it takes longer as the distance divides But there is always hope For another grand adventure Where Tokens Run Freely Among Fools. Praise for The Public By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 6:41:51 PM When the public loves you For example when you're a bartender All kinds of praise and thanks sing forward Most noteably in the form of tips. But the public can be a coiling serpent Throwing suspicious or paranoid glances your way Whispering or hissing the unthinkable For no apparent reason other than that you are there. I praise the public In all it's gross anguish At unsightliness or the often quoted irregularity It makes an effort to create order from chaos To find the diamonds in the coal. But I curse its' methods For the sting of their stingers is bitter I hurt inside when I feel their uncaring application For whenever I choose to be And for whatever worldly purpose or pursuit - I am only a man And can aspire to nothing greater Than the good itself And the inspiration of those who would also seek it. So public Have your praise You have earned it through your deeds And I expect that you will not take my gesture lightly. After all It is you Who will carry the ripples Of the smooth edges stones That I so carefully pitch. Screws Nails and Boards By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 5:38:21 PM I've never really liked Screws Nails or Boards. Twisting Hammering or Sawing Just never seemed to be my thing. Sometimes I wish I'd learned better How to work with wood or plaster Because at times I wonder how nice it would be To make myself a new bookshelf. I've left behind the skills of carpentry And wall hanging and wool In exchange for a computer and a pen And a calculator and paper. I would like to build that bookshelf But I can't quite figure out where to put it It seems sometimes that my toys are owning too much real estate In the corners of my room. Old modems and audio modules and cases of copper wire Clutter everything up. And then I get too confused About the papers in front of the dresser's floorspace And I can't write about it anymore. Movie Theater Scam By Christopher J. Bradley 3/6/01 6:35:51 PM A machine resting in a hallway In the theater near home Made me want to drill the thing And fill it full of holes. It authorized my credit card And stuck me with a bill But wouldn't print the tickets To let me view the film. So I shouted rants out at the clerk Who didn't really care It must have happened all the time It must not be that rare. Eventually they printed And fell down through the slot They got me past the ticket taker Who'd been beyond earshot. Next time I buy a ticket I'll keep a careful stash And never use a Master Plate It's not as good as cash. When the Blues turn Red By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 5:03:39 PM Blood moves through the veins and arteries Of a living man Mutating from Blue to Red Oxygenating the body Swiftly in pulsations. I think my pulse must have risen The day it all became possible Our region was within a breath of victory My street's value could rise with a kick. I lived on Norwood Avenue that year The year the pressure caved The star kicker for the Buffalo Bills And the ball came down on rough grass. Football is more lifestyle than sport to many Americans It's players are the new gladiators of the Western Empire They are one with our Art Commerce Trade and Literature Of that last note this becomes a less than unique work. Televised action however Cannot compare with The force of mass crossed with acceleration In an inelastic forty yard line collision Of flesh bone and gristling jaws. I pressed into the mash a few times In a red and grey t-shirt On a field with my compatriots Not far from Kominski park In the shadow of Chicago's elevated train. We were the champions of the season Of an epic traversal Through bruise and bone-shatter We trudged through the cold wet muck of October. And we drank And we sang And we dined. The Latin Senate By Christopher J. Bradley 3/7/01 6:18:40 PM In 1998 A.D. we convened In a hall on the University Campus To discuss linguistic endeavors And the fantasy Of those who ruled for a thousand years. There were two women among us That I noticed right off Because one had red hair And the other lived in my hometown. Another of the senators Was a bone doctor Studying paleontology And bringing latin named artifacts to class The most impressive of which was a cranium. Our Cesar A tall thin shadow caster Spoke of the whims of Aphrodite and Hades And the other subjects of Zeus While instructing us in the necessity for oxen in past times. I write to him from time to time now And am glad to hear he married successfully Unlike Attilla And engineered his fortress Somewhere more secure than this. All of the other senators passed through the loopholes Some not as flowingly as others. And I remember reading and writing about Cities in the clouds Traveled to on chariots made of the air itself. And I know that I can build bridges now Between what I learn and what I want to show And let the waters splash from the rivers of my mind Through the aqueducts of data and parchment To the citizenship at large. Yohimbe Gold By Christopher J. Bradley It is Monday night And I have awakened from a slumbering nap To a streak dinner cooked by my sister And served by my mother. Everyone waited for me to finish To sing happy birthday to her boyfriend And finding myself without appetite due to the warmth of summer I excused myself for a cigarette. As I stepped from the front porch onto scraping cement I recalled that I had spoken with Scott in North Carolina before sleeping It had been so long I told him about the Morrissey collection my friend had put together. He let me know about his car disaster. So as I watched the seagulls dance against the sky net Of red orange turning to hues of evening blue I remembered the packet of Yohimbe Gold of a year ago That I was going to take to him To make him smile if for no other reason. I may have bought it or it may have been the first thing that I have stolen Since I was five when I tried to get the buttons at the mall for my mother In any case I was never charged for it and the store keeper must have found his profits In the turkey sandwich he sold me. I was lost on a long road toward New York But that packet in the desert was like manna A manna I had discovered in a lexicon in Boston While playing Scrabble with him in a smoked out kitchen In our small pink house not far from Davis. That summer we drank Grolsh beer Watched half a baseball game Played Chess in Harvard Square Played Doom against my OS/2 rigged 486 Worked in various offices And got lost near Newton and the Charles River. There was a girl at the supermarket Who liked both of us I kept imagining ways of impressing her with a mattress My only piece of acquired furniture Other than the television set That only played The sessions of the Yohimbe Gold cast Over and over Until they unleashed Windows 95. On finishing books By Christopher J. Bradley 9/10/01 11:07:50 PM In the past two weeks I have finished Completely read Two books. One a novel The other a notorious compilation of poetry. I hoped to start getting better at my composition Through some adventures in reading. I don't think that I've yet become more verbose. I've been listening to the music of the people at work as well. Their rhythms have an influence to my speech And I will not say that the ideas expressed have cleansed my spirit But I will say that giving them a try Might help me to understand them better. What is it about the inspiration of the 1860's for the future of today That is left out of our modern hope for better times to come? I know that only you who are left when I am gone might answer As I live my slow time Like the Mowhawks of Summer's past And pray for autumn showers To cool the fires in my heart That burn for so many I cannot have As I read and write In an era of literary silence And bombastic digital noise. A Promise of New Life in Spring By Christopher J. Bradley I do not always understand the things that happen together Events jumble up one after another and it is difficult to conclude that they have meaning. This Spring I have heard that three people have died. A man my age the great aunt of a friend and the grandmother of a friend's child. I remember two of them from having met them It seems they were good people and I expect they will find happiness in the next life. Brian helped me to accomplish a great feat once Carting 20 gallons of juice up a hill to a manor in Canada Only so that we could bring them down again without pay. He will go on in my memory as a great helper and a good friend Though I did not know him well I look forward to meeting him again. For Aunts and Grandmothers There is truth that you have lived well and shared your lives with others May each of you live on with them In this life and the next. For those who do not understand the promise of new life I pray that they find it before the next Spring time that draws us apart and together. Antique Piano Teacher By Christopher J. Bradley Dedicated to Glenn Tilou My antique Piano Teacher Made my fingers grind Like the spokes of a tinsmith phonograph With tune and beat and time. The keys of Ivory and Black Easily fell down To hammer high strung strings of steel And make melodic sound. At first co-ordination Was an awful stretch It took a lot to follow notes And make my digits flex. I haven't yet matched Beethoven Or Bach or Tchicovski But I can now spin jazz about In harmonic minor C. He granted me composing art And organized my skill Someday I'll put a tune together With a plastic quill. The harmony of days gone by Lives beyond his den In the accolades of disciples Of his discipline. Fiery Leaves in Autumn by Christopher Bradley 11/3/01 9:41:15 PM Leaves wet like mud line the cool autumn asphalt Of my suburb street on a windless afternoon. My brother and I shuffle through them. We walk up the street to the top Where he jogs A little package of soccer muscles His wind-breaker flicking against still air. I fuss with my Sunoco cigarette lighter And a package of reservation tobacco And walk carefully behind him Not wanting to jostle my lower back. To be eight years old again And not wonder about the troubles of adulthood. My biggest concerns might be the Gameboy that had been taken away because of an irresponsible comment. There is always learning time I think learning would be better than knowing how the silence of old friends can be. It is a quiet street now. The days of chips and salsa are long since past They pretty much ended when my brother's leather case was stolen. And the dog started to get big. Oh Sky? Do you care whether our visitors are friend or foe? We watch the news waiting for a single confirmed kill As though that will stop the misery that still stirs New Yorkers to unrest On a day like today And so few to come before the snow When the fiery leaves of autumn Are trodden through Like wet licks of mud On the heels of a young boy And his mustached brother. Painting The Rock by Christopher J Bradley 11/28/99 5:30:51 PM The Inter Greek Council Each year At Illinois Institute of Technology Sponsored Greek Games. One of the games Was to Paint The Rock. The Rock rested outside the student center Underneath a maple tree And there was never a day that there weren't new letters scrawled upon it In bright colored spray paint. I volunteered to paint the rock And get points for our house so I bought paint And got up early every morning to paint the rock. We would run over with the cans in a backpack watching for campus cops and carefully apply the paint. The rock was thick with many layers coated by the 16 houses. One day another house painted after we did so we took a butter knife to the Rock. The layers pulled off like rubber Years of paint littered the ground around the rock. Someone did it again and that night after a brother stole acetate from the chemistry lab They lit the rock on fire and the flames were so high That the tips of the branches of the tree were singed. It didn't seem all that important But there were other things we could have done Homework Sleep Having Pizza with Women But for everything else we could have done We may as well have danced around it. The Rock was ours. Category:Catalog